Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother

‘Thanks, Tim. I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t want us getting off on the wrong foot, you know. I’m looking forward to having your input on this case. We’ll catch up when I’ve spoken to Rhea again. And we can use that murky past of yours, yes?’

I feel a chill again. I laugh. He laughs back.

‘Good, you see – we can laugh about it now. I’m such a chump. Always misjudge situations. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good evening.’

‘Thanks, Tim. I’ll type up my notes of the con tomorrow.’

‘Good stuff. Say hello to the little one for me.’

And so we part.

I haven’t had enough vodka to feel a warm fondness for him. But I am grateful. Again. There was a glow with Dan. If I had a child minder – or even a babysitter – I could have stayed there a little while. And if he does call me (about me, not about the case) I could do something other than lunch or an invitation to read a bedtime story to a ten-year-old. So yes, I’ll think about it.

Back at the office, I put the Rhea Stevens file in the boot of my car. On a whim, I flick again to her photo. I stroke it with one finger. ‘We’ll help you,’ I say.

Tim, Dan, and I. We’ll make a good team. I know we will.

Chapter 9 (#ulink_a4514e8c-9d60-50fd-b52f-f11155cea2db)

That night, after Josh is in bed, I’m just dimming the lights and putting my feet up on the sofa when my mobile phone glows. You know, my proper mobile (not the one under the bed). A call in.

Oh. It’s that number.

I hate these calls. Like a pointless routine doctor’s appointment – a waste of everyone’s time.

I’d better answer, though.

‘Hi,’ I say, my voice hushed. Josh wouldn’t go to sleep until we’d read about a million chapters of The BFG together. The last thing I want is to wake him. I’ll need matchsticks under my eyes tomorrow as it is.

‘Ms Sutton?’ It’s the woman this time – Sarah.

‘Of course.’

‘Hi, Ms Sutton, it’s –’

‘I know who you are.’

A pause.

I can hear her think ‘Rude ungrateful bitch’ then regather her professionalism.

‘Well, Ms Sutton, I’m just checking in, to see everything’s OK.’

‘All fine,’ I say.

I don’t tell her about the shop windows, the notes on dashboards, the strange comments today at work.

‘Just the odd bit of paranoia,’ I say. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘Do you need another medical referral?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t.’

That’s how they coped with me in the first two years. Doped me up on Valium and Seroxat and God knows what else. Sang the old lullabies to get myself through, never mind the baby. Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy … a hitman to come and kill us if he or his housemates ever find us. Postnatal depression my arse. Justified fear for your own life and the life of your child. Horrified at what desperation had driven me to – the fear not just of Mick, but also of having no future to offer my little baby. Hunched on the sofa, terrified that Chloe would turn up.

But do you know what? I fucking missed Chloe. I missed her every day. Even though the thought of her surfacing again, some time, scared the shit out of me. That’s what happens when you’re ripped away from someone, even when it’s for your own good. And Mum. Of course I missed Mum. After everything, I just wanted a hug from her.

‘Well, if there’s anything you do need, or if you think there’s anything unusual, let me know, won’t you?’ says Sarah.

‘I’m thinking of getting a child minder,’ I tell her.

A bit of a pause. Consulting the manual, maybe?

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Well, we can arrange that for you. Obviously, you can’t be placing any advertisements. You won’t get extra funding, I’m afraid.’

Of course. The deal didn’t come with ‘You can live your life’, just ‘You can live.’

‘I’ve got a recommendation from a colleague,’ I say. I don’t want some State-endorsed child minder in six months’ time. I want an easy route, a known person, soon.

‘We’ll have to vet them on the security files. You’ve still got the address haven’t you, to send information through? We’ll need their full details and –’

‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘It was just a thought.’

‘You’re sure?’ she asks.

‘I’m sure,’ I lie, crossing my fingers. I’ll rely on my own security vetting when I meet the child minder – my gut. After all, no one here in Luton would connect me with Chloe. Anyone who would want revenge for what she did is safely locked away in another part of the country. For the first time in my life, I’m safe, and so is Josh. We can get a fucking child minder.

‘Well, if you change your mind, Ms Sutton, please let me know. Better safe than sorry.’

‘Of course. Is there anything else?’

‘No, not at the present time, Ms Sutton. We’ll keep you posted if there are any developments.’

The same sign-off to every call. What developments would there be?

Well, obviously, one. But I don’t need to worry about that yet. Not for a good five years or so.

She rings off and I’m alone again.

Except not. The phone glows again. What, new developments already?

No.

Unknown number.

Is the woman calling me on a different line?